


Holy Ghost

by tragedie



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: (of many religions), Angel!Ryan, Angst, Demon!Shane, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Supernatural violence, alcohol use that may be a little unhealthy, am i too late for demon! shane?, humor and angst in equal measure, it's not really shippy but you can read into is as you wish i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragedie/pseuds/tragedie
Summary: Eons spent watching humanity suffer, eons spent watching brethren fall.Rumiel has grown tired of watching. Why was faith so hard for them to keep? There was good left in the world, and he'd make even the most skeptical believe.But was coming to Earth a leap of faith, or a long fall of his own?Even the highest fall. And when they do....Heaven has no mercy for the damned.





	1. Genesis

_Los Angeles, City of Angels._

 

Rumiel wondered how the He- _Heaven_ he ended up here when he threw himself out of Heaven’s gates in a leap of faith. One long fall and years of close calls spent trying to save humanity somehow sent him...here. Making videos for humans to enjoy (at least he was putting good in the world) and throwing himself at any haunted location he could. Living in the world of humans was different from watching it — apparently, several millennia weren’t enough. Complex, nuanced beings — it was so _complicated_ and sometimes terrible. Men conjured up demons even Rumiel might never exorcise, that he wouldn’t find even in the most haunted houses. He made enough videos about murder to know. Having all the answers when no one else did made it worse.

 

It got lonely.

 

At least Father Thomas was a familiar face.

 

* * *

 

_Lying on an altar. Something biting at its senses. Pain?_

_  
_ _Sitting up, it became clear this form was biologically male. He stared down at his hands, tan and full of blood and bone and tendon. He willed them to flex, watched as they did. He must have been somewhere in the West, because he surroundings read Catholic more than they did any other human religion. He always found it odd that they all disagreed yet were so similar._

 _The human form was also odd. He knew he could shed this form and become a thousand of his Father’s other creations. But burning up humans in Heavenly glory or scaring them into insanity wouldn’t exactly be helpful._  
_“Hello?” He called, testing his human vocal chords. For some reason, English felt right. He sensed a nearby presence approaching. The door opened to a man standing in the narthex, mouth frozen in a silent shout._ _  
So much for not scaring humans. He was off to a great start._

 _“Do not be afraid,” Rumiel's voice echoed off the stain glass windows. “I am Rumiel, servant of Heaven.”_  
_The priest studied him in shock, then fell to his knees at Rumiel’s feet — a very unflattering angle — and bowed his head._  
_After the man murmured enough prayers to go through a rosary and enough questions to make his eyes glaze over, he introduced himself as Father Thomas and gave him clothes from the church’s donation pile._ _  
Right, clothes. Those were things now_.

 _It was odd to think that Rumiel was millennia older than this man, who looked every part of his title as Father. Rumiel saw his human self in the church’s bathroom mirror. He looked young, with a juvenile flop of black hair. He looked...human. Vulnerable._  
_Clothed, he returned to speak to Father Thomas._  
_“I’ll call you Ryan. You’ll need a human name.”_ _  
Rumiel — Ryan— gazed up at the crucifix, and the human body suspended in anguish upon it._

_He didn’t even know how to act as a human. Humans sinned. “Human is a tough thing to be,” he muttered. Was he the savior or the sacrifice?_

_A crease appeared between the man’s eyebrows. He was a very quiet, pensive man. “I wish more people believed in you.”_  
_Rumiel shook his head. “You misunderstand. It’s not just me, or-“ he gestured to the crucifix — “a god they need to believe in. They just need to believe in something, something good. That’s all.”_  
_Father Thomas sighed. “There’s not much good here lately.”_ _  
Rumiel fixed him with sad eyes and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here to help with that.”_

 

* * *

 

_“Be careful in the world of men and devils. They do not deserve you.”_

_“Even the highest fall.”_

He always dreamt of falling. Falling, falling further, further. Like-

The thought fluttered away like feathers. He didn’t have to sleep, but this body did. Six human years and he still wasn’t used to it. Sometimes, his skin felt a little too tight -- or too loose, like he could shed it any moment, like the slightest breeze could pull it away. Even _time_ was hard to get used to having been around since the start.

It was time to go to work. Work, that was a thing now.

Work, and his maybe-not-human, maybe-just-really-weird best friend.

He wondered if Shane thought the same of him, then remembered he didn’t believe in him. He’d never believe in him.

It was an old ache, one Rumiel learned to spin into gold and laughter.

 

* * *

 

His maybe-nephilim, maybe-just-really-weird best friend was late. Not late for work, but late for _him._ He was always early. Did that man need sleep?

Sometimes he caught himself thinking it over, how when he first met him, it burned. How his sloping cheekbones and radiant smile were just a little too _right_ in a way that was just _wrong_ for a human. How shaking his hand left a blister. Ryan Steven Bergara was one bright soul. He was practically angelic.

If only he knew he was dancing with the devil.

Every time he mentioned his fear and disgust for demons, something in Shane’s ribs flipped.

Ryan could never know about any of it. Ever.

 

A familiar warm hand fell on his shoulder and he jerked from his reverie, trying hard not to jerk straight out of his skin. Shane was not easy to startle. Usually, he would have sensed him. “Ryan! You’re late!”

Said man responded lazily, seeming distracted. “Slept in.”

Shane scoffed, studying him. Same bags under his eyes as always. “Since when?”

“Since you stopped asking questions.” His voice was almost sharp in the way he saved for bantering about the supernatural. “Besides, I’m still early. Since when are _you?”_

Shane wanted to tell him he liked having him around, how his soul was somewhere between beacon and feast. He’d starved himself too long-

Familiar shame twisted with pleasure when he let himself get too close.

“Since I had to keep up with your schedule. When was the last time you took a break?” Shit, was he _worried_ about his- _this_ little human?

“The dawn of time.” His face was too straight for such a characteristic batshit retort. He must have liked the look on Shane’s face, because the batshit insane smile came to match it. “Once I finish scripting this episode for season 5.”

“Ooooh, where are we going first?” Shane pattered a rhythm on his desk with a red pen. “ _Hell?”_

Ryan sputtered, then softened into a smile. “No, actually, you’ll like this one.”

“Oooooh!”

“No hints! Now let me work!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to @cryptidgarbage on tumblr for being my beta. my tumblr is @spacewheeze 
> 
> note: I personally am not religious, but grew up in a Christian household, so this story will probably have a more western twist. However I aim to include other religious elements as each have valid beliefs pertaining to spirituality.


	2. Hallowed Ground

“Today on Buzzfeed Unsolved we investigate the Civil War battlefield in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania as part of our ongoing investigation into the question, are ghosts real?”  
Ryan paused for the camera to pan to Shane’s signature head shake. “We’ll also be staying in the haunted Farnsworth Inn.” Ryan glanced around the dining room they were in. They’d checked in around noon after a long car ride from the airport and a short tour of town in the muggy heat. Filled with summer tourists, Gettysburg was especially active — hopefully, not just with the living. He counted at least seven separate businesses offering ghost tours. He glanced over at Shane, who was studying a display case filled with uniforms and other Civil War antiques. “What do you think about this?”

“Hm? Oh. I love it. You know me, I love history. It’s a nice change of scenery from creepy hospitals and empty houses.” Shane seemed distracted, probably trying to take in all the antiques around him. Maybe he was planning something for _Ruining History_. “I think you...will shit your pants the second you see a tree rustle.”

“Shut up, Shane.” Ryan was already trying to ignore his mounting dread.

“Nice Confederate flag behind us.” Shane’s distaste was palpable. Ryan snorted.

“Yeah, maybe we’ll meet some racist ghosts. You can try your southern accent again.”

“Good evnin’, Gen’ral,” Shane drawled. Ryan snickered.

“God, you are so white.” Ryan shook his head. “Let’s get into the timeline, okay?”

 

* * *

 

Parking in an empty tourist lane, a grassy field stretched out before them. Something about how empty it was felt off, in an almost reverent way. The sun was setting in a picturesque, _greetings-from-Gettysburg_ kind of beautiful. Monuments and the distant tree line were outlined in gold. Shane snapped a photo. Ryan let himself enjoy the heavens for a moment. It helped ignore the tightness of his throat.  “We don’t have long to get ourselves ready before the sun sets.”

Shane nodded, still taking it all in. “So what kinda spoils we in for?”

“Pretty obvious. Soldiers, phantom regiments, even some horses. Female nurses make appearances. Some people say they hear gunshots and smell smoke.”

“Re-enactment.”

Ryan pursed his lips. Sometimes it hit just a little harder that Shane didn’t believe in much of anything.

He set his jaw. _I’ll make a believer out of you yet, Shane Madej._ Tonight felt promising, if promising felt like having ghostly fingers crawling up his back and fear clawing his throat. The heavy wool of the Union coat he wore felt suffocating.

 

Maybe it was human instinct, but as soon as the sun went down, Ryan felt sick.

“So what are we doing out here, Ryan? Just gonna stand in an open field, catch some ticks, talk to air?”

Shane was not helping Ryan’s headache. “We’re going to walk that way, just like they did in the battle, and try to communicate with them.”

“Shouldn't you technically be that way, shooting me?” Shane adjusted his Confederate jacket, which was probably a size too small.

Ryan barely had it in him to crack a joke. “Yeah, but I couldn't afford the rifle.”

“Wait, is that even legal? They just sell guns like souvenirs here?”

“This is America, Shane.”

They walked in silence, which made everything worse. It felt like an entire regiment of soldiers was trying to cram into his head. He felt hands tug him. The air was thick, not just humid but _charged._ The smell of gunpowder wafted on the breeze. “Smell that? Re-enactment was two months ago _.”_ Even Shane seemed uneasy. His eyes flitted from monument to field to blank air. “If you don’t feel weird here you’re fucking lying.” Ryan forced his eyes to focus on Shane, because if they strayed, he wouldn’t be able to handle what he saw.

Shane shook his head, but in a way that seemed more out of habit than real dismissal. His fingers twitched at his side, but he still met Ryan’s stare and said, “Nope.” _Liar._

“You’re-” Ryan’s gaze drifted to the grassy floor. Ghostly bodies littered the ground, emptied out to gory memories and echoes of screams. He was glad blood didn’t leave behind a spectre. “We’re standing on corpses.” He could hear the tremor in his own voice. Bile crawled up his throat. _So much death._

Shane’s mouth twitched. “We’re standing on grass, Ryan. Don’t get all in your head about it.”

_No, Shane. We’re literally standing on bodies you can’t even see. Get your giant head of of your ass for one second._

Ryan swallowed the lump in his throat. “Wanna try out the accent, _General?_ This is Pickett’s Charge.”

Shane nodded. Everything he did seemed like a nervous tic. “Good evn’in, sir,” he turned to Ryan. “What do I say? _Howdy_?”

Ryan just shrugged. He really, really didn’t want to listen too closely. All he could hear was screaming.

“Y’all got some hardtack?”

The only response was the humm of cicadas and fireflies over the faint backdrop of shouting and explosions. It made for a haunting harmony.

Shane huffed, dropping the accent. “How’s it feel to be a racist? How’s it feel to _lose_?”

_“Yankee.”_

Ryan barely held back a scream. Shane seemed none the wiser, his eyes still fixed on open air, unseeing to the overlay of death. He muttered something Ryan didn’t catch. The moon illuminated sweat beading up on his temple. Shane would blame the heat, but for once Ryan didn’t think he was the only one that was disturbed. It was barely 70 degrees. Shane abruptly shook his head. His pale skin looked wan and drawn, deep-set eyes dark and tired.

“Shane? Did you hear something?”

Shane didn’t answer, just kept walking deliberately on, long legs brushing through the ankle-length grass. Ryan’s skin crawled. He didn’t want to be alone with the ghosts, especially if _Shane_ was uncomfortable.

It took a moment to realize that Shane was walking _towards_ the car.

“Shane, we-”

“I think we’re done here.” His voice held little of its usual easy humor.

Ryan stopped short. He didn’t know what to say when Shane wasn’t bantering with him. “What do you mean? Did you see something?”

“Nope, that’s why we’re leaving.”

“ _We?_ What the He-” Ryan choked. “What’s wrong?”

Shane finally turned to look at him, an unreadable look in his eyes. He looked... _ancient._ Ryan knew the feeling. “Feeling a little weird, that’s all.”

Ryan blinked. Was Shane...admitting he felt uncomfortable? “I told you this place is off!”

Shane jerked his head violently. There he was again, muttering something. The deliberate tension of his shoulders screamed something was not right. His steps became sloppy, staggering. He almost looked like he’d been wounded. Ryan jogged to catch up, concern for his friend taking control of his fear. “Shane…”

They reached the car and Shane slumped against the windshield. “You look like you-”

“Like I’ve seen a ghost?” Shane huffed a humorless laugh.

Ryan didn’t answer. He was afraid he’d make it worse. He didn’t want to push, but something was wrong. “Did you…” _Wrong thing wrong thing wrong thing wrong thing!_

“No, Ryan, I didn’t see a ghost!”

Shane rarely yelled, but when he did, it felt like a punch in the face.

“I’m sorry!” Ryan ran a hand through his hair, as if he could tug the answers out through his roots. “I just need to know. I want to help. What happened?”

“Nothing, Ryan. Drop it.” Something about his voice and the glint of his teeth made it sound like a threat.

Ryan wasn’t exactly sure what he was feeling, but it definitely wasn’t _good._ “Fine. Let’s go.”

 

The five-minute drive to their next shoot felt like eons. Ryan’s headache grew as he overworked his eyes, darting from street to passing spirit to Shane. His eyebrows were drawn in a strained frown. Ryan could _feel_ the negativity pulsing off him, and it made Ryan just as sick as Shane looked.

Ryan hesitated. “Shane? You good?”

He hummed. “Just feel sick.”

Ryan knew that was a lie, but the memory of Shane snarling “ _drop it”_ made words die in his throat. He’d been staring at Shane for longer than what was probably legal inside a moving vehicle, and Shane seemed to know he didn’t want to drop it.

Shane sighed. “Remember Eastern State? Probably just bad food.”

Ryan had no idea what to say, so he just offered him the water bottle in the cup holder. Shane looked at him like he’d offered him poison, so obviously that wasn’t the right thing to do either.

Sometimes dealing with humans was just impossible.

 

The rest of their investigation wasn’t so eventful. Sitting on Little Round Top and talking to ghosts through the spirit box _(“sorry Shane, it’s for the show,”)_ felt almost rehearsed. They got enough evidence to make for a good episode, but Ryan had never wanted to leave an investigation more since the Sally House.

 His headache didn’t fade until they crossed the Maryland border.

 Shane’s hands didn’t stop shaking until they boarded the plane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated, or find me on @spacewheeze


	3. Dancing with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw alcohol

Shane hadn’t needed the reminder of how evil humanity was. He was, after all, part of the problem. He'd seen them fall and fell with them. Gettysburg was like salt in an old bullet wound, a reminder of agony and war.

A reminder of how Shane enjoyed it.

He tried not to remember, he tried not to fall to memories. He was never good at resisting the fall.

Ryan made it worse. Shane tried to avoid him, but the man seemed determined to know what was wrong. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, in typical Ryan fashion. Also in typical Ryan fashion, he wanted to review footage. The last thing Shane wanted to do was review footage.

 Ryan’s voice held concern and exasperation in equal measure. “Shane, you’ve been off since Gettysburg, and you won’t review the footage with me. Can’t you just-” tired, pleading eyes fixed him. “Tell me what’s wrong? For both our sakes?”

Shane ground his jaw. He couldn’t. He never could. Those eyes would turn cold, full of tears, full of anger and terror. Shane could never coax back that warmth if Ryan ever knew, even if it meant being cold to Ryan. Humans had a saying that Hell was cold.

_It’s for the best._

He tried to ignore the nagging voice telling him he didn’t deserve Ryan’s warmth.

Shane huffed. He had to lie, another sin he knew too well. “Just stressed about the new season, I guess. And I guess Gettysburg was a little weird. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Shane almost winced at his own tone. He sounded scathingly aggravated.

Ryan _did_ wince. His mouth was open, but whatever words hung there didn’t come out. He turned back to his computer. Shane tried to ignore the guilt.

He was ignoring a lot of things today.

“Hey, we’re both stressed. How about we just get drinks after work?”

Ryan’s broad shoulders climbed up to meet his jawline. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed before they eased back into place, but Shane knew what to look for. Ryan breathed as if he had to physically let the strain out. He nodded to whatever internal argument he was resolving in his mind. “Yeah-yeah that sounds good.”

Shane wasn’t sure he believed that; it didn’t even sound like Ryan believed himself, but something told him there was a line being drawn on both sides and the wrong word would light the fuse.  

Ryan left to review the footage alone.

Shane watched the clock and passed the time doing anything but thinking. He had centuries of memories to drown tonight. It wasn't like one more vice could make him any worse than he already was.

* * *

Ryan stared down at his glass like he was selling his soul. Shane had never seen him hesitate so much around alcohol -- he was always careful, but this seemed...pensive. Afraid. Shane was fairly certain Ryan’s many fears did not include IPAs. He wasn’t even watching the basketball game displayed on five separate TV’s overhead. It was Shane’s turn to ask what was wrong, but he had no idea how. His second beer was half empty and if he started talking he wasn’t sure he could stop.

_Tempt him into talking._

Shane gulped down his beer and let the tingling heat ease his anxiety. Then he reached over and pushed Ryan’s closer. Ryan blinked.

“Drink up.”

Ryan’s smile was forced. “Yeah, I will. I’m just-” he cut himself off. Shane was getting tired of this charade. The sickening taste of the negativity he fed on mixed with the alcohol on his tongue. Did he do something wrong? What happened to _(wheeze)_ ? The realization that he _missed_ it was an icy shock.

Shane put on his devilish grin and wafted the alcohol underneath Ryan’s nose. “What’s little  Ryan afraid of now?”

Ryan looked downright _done._ Through tight lips, he snapped “Shut up, Shane.” Then he took the glass in his hand. He hesitated for another second, swirling the liquid and watching the tears of ethanol run down the sides of the glass. He looked like a moody wine drinker in an old French film. “I’m just afraid of-” He shrugged slightly. “Doing something wrong.” His rare candor was...worrying, even to a demon. Then he threw his head back and drank. Swallowing, he fixed Shane with his stare. “Happy?”

_Not really._

Instead Shane called over the bartender and ordered a round of shots. Ryan’s incredulous look went down with the memories and the burn of Polish vodka.

 

He stopped remembering what was wrong and stopped remembering how much he’d drunk. His control felt weak, he felt like he’d do...something. Times like these it took all his power _not_ to use it.It wasn’t like anyone here would remember if he stopped looking human. The line between harmless fun and sin blurred here. Bars were always delicious after a few drinks. So much potential for sin in one place was as intoxicating as anything he drank.

Ryan still seemed almost as anxious as before.

“Let’s dance!” Shane took Ryan’s wrist before he could protest. He wanted to have fun, damn it. Perks of being a demon, he wouldn’t have a hangover.

Something that was probably by Drake was playing and he didn’t care about much else. He was just a human having a little too much fun. The tension between them eased away as they flailed around to ABBA. A few coworkers were blended into the crowd, but Shane didn’t pay much attention to the bodies around them.

And if his stopped looking human, Ryan didn’t say anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a short one, but hopefully it was still a good read. thanks for reading! as always, find me on @spacewheeze, leave comments and kudos <3


	4. Sacrilege

“Do we really have to do this Ryan?” 

Ryan fixed him with a glare and turned off the engine with a jerk of the keys. “Yes, Shane.” He opened the car door and hopped down onto the blacktop pavement. 

Dread crept up Shane’s throat with every moment they were here.  _ Again?  _ He hated these things. It made his skin crawl and burn. “Do  _ I _ have to?” He knew he sounded like a child but couldn’t bring himself to care.

Ryan slumped. “Shane, please. You know this makes me feel better.” While Shane’s skin was crawling, Ryan’s was nearly  _ glowing _ and he was filled with a near manic energy. Even as he gave Shane that ‘ _ please pull your head out of your ass for me’  _ look, his smile didn’t go away. “Besides, you can never have too much Holy Water.” 

“Yes you can,” Shane mumbled. He lived in fear that someday he’d make the mistake of drinking from the wrong water bottle. In his centuries on Earth, he’d lived through enough pitchforks and shunnings to know what happened. He could feel his very being burning. 

But he couldn’t say no to Ryan, even if he was given the choice. He shoved his hands into his pockets before they could sprout incriminating claws. He swallowed heavily, hoping he didn’t look half as anxious as he really was. What was most people’s sanctuary was Shane’s curse, and he was willingly entering, again. The saints on the stained glass window stared at him as if they knew. He was pretty sure his very presence was sacrilege. 

“Father Thomas did say we should visit, _respect the diabolical_ and all that.” Ryan walked ahead, a skip in his steps. Shane had never walked this slow. 

Shane snorted. “Oh, I respect it alright. We better be careful this season.” As long as he kept cracking jokes he kept some semblance of being fine. For some reason  _ this  _ time was worse than all the other trips to see priests; maybe he was still on edge from Gettysburg. Father Gary was a sham, and Shane could grit his teeth and handle a few crosses. He told himself normalcy would return soon; they’d investigate some boring house and Shane could joke around without feeling like Ryan was one conspiracy theory away of finding him out. Fucks sake, the fans somehow figured it out, even if it was a joke. 

The wooden doors of the church were shaped like a coffin and swung upon on easy hinges. Shane held his breath. Keeping his human form was harder on holy ground. Doing so meant staying in a body screaming with every sense to get out. His skin felt rubbed raw, his stomach churned, his ears rang, stars danced in his vision. How long did he have to handle this? 

 

Father Thomas was waiting for them in the narthex, armed crossed and eyes scanning them like a very judgmental teacher. 

“Father! Good to see you.” 

“Good to see you too.” The  _ ‘alive’  _ that punctuated that statement didn’t need to be said. Shane had the strong urge to punch the man. Claws snagged his pockets. 

Thankfully, Father Thomas spared him little attention as he usually did. To him, Shane was just a foolish human that didn’t believe. Ryan, however, he gave about as much attention as Ryan did to him, exchanging pleasantries and recounting adventures with ghosts. Father Thomas was quiet and made occasional worried “hmm” sounds and remarks expected of a Catholic priest. He was especially concerned with the Ouija board, asking if anything went wrong after its use and if they planned to use it again, how they used it and what happened when they did.

Every moment was torture. 

“Shane.” Father Thomas’ quiet voice beckoned him. Shane had barely been listening to focus on keeping his impulses at bay. “How did you feel at Gettysburg?” His prodding eyes felt like daggers. 

He fumbled for words. “It was a little odd. A lot of people died there, it’s sad to think about. I think I ate something wrong.” Every word came out as crooked as his forced grin. “No demons.” 

“Do you still feel affected?”

Shane’s claws ground into his thigh. He’d ruin his poor chinos if he didn’t get out of here soon. “No.” 

The priest’s skeptical eye stayed on him. “You seem uncomfortable.”

“I uh-” he shifted. “Do you have a bathroom?” 

Father Thomas huffed and sat back. “Out of the narthex, turn left.” 

If Shane had a god he could thank, he would have sunk down onto the pew and prayed his thanks. He wasn’t exactly on good terms with any higher being. 

 

Exiting the sanctum felt like taking a break to walk after a long run. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he wasn’t on the verge of murdering a nosy priest. Staring at himself in the mirror, he was relieved to see the weird but human features he’d grown into look back at him. He looked sick, not demonic. 

He had to go back. Staying too long would be worrying if not suspicious. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to leave the bathroom. 

 

When he returned, Father Thomas was engaged in deep conversation with Ryan, but paused as soon as he saw Shane. 

“Well, you two should probably be going soon.” 

_ Yes yesyesyesyes.  _

“But since you two are messing with dangerous things, I’d like to do a blessing.” 

_ No nononononono.  _

Ryan, on the contrary, nodded vigorously. “Thank you, Father. Oh, and I have some water too.” 

Shane tried to slouch into nonexistence as Father Thomas busied himself with Ryan’s blessing. Sadly, being 6’4 made being small and unremarkable practically impossible. He itched to get out of here. He itched to give in, to let loose, to-

“Amen.” 

And it was his turn. No point in resisting. He grit his teeth, trying desperately not to let them turn sharp, and let the priest lay a hand on his head. It felt like a lead blanket. Oh, what he wished to do- 

“May the almighty Lord and his angels protect His son, Shane Alexander Madej, amen.” 

If his skin was crawling before, he needed  _ out  _ of it now. He never felt so wrong. The best he could do was get up and walk out as soon as possible. 

He wasn’t fast enough to avoid hearing Father Thomas’ last words to Ryan as Shane turned his back. 

“Be careful with him.” 

It took all he had not to growl.

 

“Hey, what’s up with you?” Ryan slid into the driver’s side and instantly turned his attention to Shane. “You’re still off and I don’t understand it.” 

Shane rested his forehead against the window. It was almost fall now, which meant LA would be almost cool. “I just...can we go out tonight?” 

“We went out last night.” Ryan pulled out of his parking space. “I’m not letting you become an alcoholic.” 

“Seriously, Ryan?” All his pain and rage was getting to him. “I’m fine. Let’s just go.” 

“Then act like it!” Ryan’s hands clenched around the steering wheel. Ryan was rarely angry, but the set to his jaw was dangerous. “Jesus Christ, half of me thinks something possessed you but you wouldn’t take me seriously, would you? You don’t take anything seriously.”

What hurt the most was that he was almost right. “I’m not fucking possessed, Ryan.”

“Well you sure didn’t look comfortable in there.” 

“Ryan, you know I don’t really...believe in that stuff.” 

Ryan exhaled sharply and turned to face him. “Oh, I’m well aware. I’m trying to protect you, you know.” 

“I don’t need protecting.” 

“God, you are so-” Ryan took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, he almost looked guilty. The blinker was still ticking away, they were still stopped at the exit of the church parking lot. “Stupid,” he muttered. “I’ll drive you home. You’re not drinking.” The finality of the statement was punctuated by turning onto the road. Shane felt the air pressure pop the second the church was out of eyesight. 

  
  


If blessings were supposed to cleanse, washing it off in the shower was bliss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the read! Sorry if it's slow or a little late, I'm feeling pretty awful and discouraged this week but I promise next chapter gets some ~action~! kudos and comments are very appreciated, feel free to visit me on @spacewheeze!  
> also, since it's not really common knowledge, the narthex is just the part outside of the church sanctum.


	5. Angel of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for translations

Ryan groaned. He’d pull his hair out one of these days. Somehow mundane tasks required biblical effort.  
Begging HR to grant them the budget to send them to the Paris catacombs had been hard enough, the logistics of going were a whole other tangle of bureaucracy. Between passports, (Ryan didn’t even have a _birth certificate_ ) plane tickets, and convincing TJ and Shane to download fucking Duolingo; Ryan was ready to scream at the heavens. Even getting permission to film in the catacombs was difficult.

He wasn’t worried about French. He’d have to fake _not_ understanding it. Shane and TJ were likely to attract a lot of rude stares. Shane would end up insulting someone, probably on purpose.

Ryan told himself it would be worth it to see Paris from a human perspective. Glittering lights and monuments to architecture and the arts; delicacies of macarons and coq au vin.  
For the sake of the job too, of course.

  
“Hey Bergmeister!” Shane laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Ryan just about jumped out of his skin. Literally.

  
“Jesus Christ Shane!” Ryan breathed out. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

  
Shane dodged his punch and cackled. “You’re the one making me conjugate _je mange la pomme.”_

Ryan grumbled and Shane finally softened. “Woah, you ok?”

  
“Not really,” Ryan sighed, stretching out his back. The human body was so constricting. “Turns out I underestimated the work this would take.”

  
“Hey, it’s ok.” Shane seemed uncomfortable with the soft turn of the conversation. His long fingers twitched. “We’ll be living _la vie en rose_ and talking to the Phantom of the Opera in no time!”

  
Ryan let a reluctant grin slide in. “Yeah, you’re right. HR’s got most of it covered. I’m just overthinking.”

  
“Your mind is your worst enemy,” Shane quipped “Spooky little demons in there.”

  
Ryan snorted. Yeah, no. “I think you’re the one with the demons.”

  
Shane’s laughter was deafening. “Nah, I’m demon-proof. We still own that bridge, you know.”

  
“Not according to Wikipedia.”

  
Shane just wheezed in response.

 

* * *

 

After a fitful 12 hour flight, they arrived at the Charles de Gaulle airport and retrieved their extensive baggage.  
“These people don’t even sell hot dogs. I’m disappointed.”

“That’s because they have good taste,” Ryan sighed “you almost died eating baggage claim hot dogs last time.”

“Worth it.”

“Wrong show.”

Shane’s breezy cackle burst out of him. “Oh, imagine how jealous Steven will be. Let’s send him pictures of fancy _eau de parfum_ and _mille feuille!”_

“Yeah. Maybe some Hermès in there, fancy champagne…”

 

* * *

 

  
_ARRÊTE ! C’EST ICI L’EMPIRE DE LA MORT._ _  
_ Ryan shuddered.  _STOP! THIS IS THE EMPIRE OF DEATH._

  
“That’s lovely,” Shane announced.

  
“Duolingo taught you the word for _death_ ?”

  
“This entire show is about death, Ryan.”

  
“Touché.”

Outfitted in body cameras and equipment with Mark following them, they entered the Empire of Death. Shane had to bend over double, and Ryan felt more cramped in his skin than he ever had. Mark had to use a small camera and they only had access to some of the vast caverns, which was good for the sake of Ryan’s sanity and mounting headache. The human body’s reaction to stress was abysmal, or at least _this_ body’s, maybe partially due to not being used it any of it. Well, used to it now, but not made for it. He swept his flashlight down the endless corridor, shadows filling eye sockets that stared right back. He’d done the research -- six to seven million people made up these walls. The thought made him sick even before he entered.

Shane even seemed to agree. A non committal but markedly disgruntled “ugh” came out. “This is slightly horrifying. And if I stand up my skull will be added to the walls. Real homey.”

“Yeah,” Ryan breathed. The air tasted stale. “Wasn’t exactly built for the living.”

“Let’s go. There’s an antechamber up ahead and the faster we get there, the sooner we can actually stand. And, you know, leave.”

So they trudged ahead, Shane humming something that sounded suspiciously like “Do You Hear the People Sing” from _Les Miserables_. The quiet resonating hum echoed eerily along with the...well, eerie atmosphere.

“Would you stop that?”

Shane paused, then hummed louder, mumbling words now just to get a rise out of Ryan. “When the beating of your heart-”

“Shane, the beating of my heart already sounds like a drum. Stop it.”

“I’m just setting the mood! Would you prefer La Marseillaise?”

Ryan was pretty sure half of France’s national anthem was about bloody revolution. “No. I’d prefer it if you stopped.”

Shane’s scowl looked downright demonic in the stark contrast of the flashlight. “Fine, listen for your little ghosties.”

Ryan sighed, shuffling faster ahead and trying to ignore the spectral shapes dancing in and out of existence. The audio recorder picked up a hell of a lot of whispers, too many to put in the episode and hopefully, too many for Shane to explain. But also too many for Ryan to handle.

They finally reached the antechamber after what felt like hours but was probably about thirty minutes. Shane cracked his back. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered.

“Ok old man, it’s time for our spirit box session.”

Shane groaned. “We’re in Paris and you’re trying to make this the worst night of my life.”

Ryan didn’t bother responding, setting the spirit box down and turning it on. The infernal sound ricocheted off the walls. Ryan had to admit, the thing sounded awful.

“I’m Ryan, that’s Shane. We’re here to talk to you.”

Nothing. Shane huffed. “Bonjour ghosties! 6 million of you, nothing to say?”

Ryan smacked him in the chest. “Seriously?”

Another minute went by with nothing but Shane huffing indignantly. Ryan broke the thickness in the air, because watching spirits come and go without saying anything was somehow worse.

  
“Well, if they’re French, maybe they don’t know what we’re saying.”

  
Shane nodded and cleared his throat. “ _Parlez-vous anglais ?_ ” His accent was surprisingly not horrible. Then his characteristic grin slid in. “ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir ?”_

  
“Seriously?” Ryan hissed. “Do you even know what that means?”

  
Shane smirked. “Sexy time with French ghosts.”

  
“How do you have- nope, let’s forget about Mimsy.” Ryan ran a hand through his hair. He had to make this look believable. “ _Nous...nous sommes américains.”_

  
The spirit box stuttered away. Shane gave it a dismissive glance. “Remember you helped us win our independence? Thanks, by the way.”  
No response.

  
“ _Nous voudrions vous parler.”_

  
Shane looked at him like a dog doing a trick. “You’re good at this.”

  
“Took some French in college.” _Nice save_ . "V _ous vous appelez comment ? Moi je m’appelle Ryan, lui, c’est Shane._ ” He threw in a hard r and toned down the accent so he didn’t look suspicious.  
Through the gargle of the spirit box, Ryan could swear he heard something in the air. “ _L-Louis_ .” The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He wasn’t entirely sure it was just his fear.  
He spun around, sweeping his flashlight along the narrow walls. Rows and rows of skulls grinned back at him in the dim light.  
And a man.  
Missing a head.  
Ryan wanted to vomit.  
“Ai-de-moi .” The man’s voice in his head was echoed by the spirit box. Sometimes Ryan wished it didn’t work for the sake of his sanity, but they needed the evidence.  
Ryan stuttered, looking back at Shane. “That means help me.”

  
Shane pursed his lips. “How did you die? Were you part of the revolution?”

Ryan felt cool sweat bead down his forehead. He knew how he died. Despite himself, he forced his shaky voice to work.  “De quelle façon vous êtes morts ?”

“ _G-Gui-l-tine_ ”  
Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “Guillotine? Little on the nose. Or head.”

“De-mo” -- oh that could _not_ be what he thought he heard -- “ _Ange_ ”  
Ryan froze.  
Angel.  
“ _S-vou-pla-_ “  
The specter was getting closer now, reaching out with zombie-like arms. “ _Ai-de-moi_ ” its bony hands clung to his thin jacket. Ryan went ice cold. He suddenly had the impulse to disappear. It took everything in him to keep his human skin.

_Go in peace,_ he thought, just in time for Shane to tap him on the shoulder.

“You good?”

Ryan turned his wide eyes to Shane, then to the spot the spirit had left.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good _._ I swear I saw something dude. I got the chills."Ryan busied himself with turning off the spirit box so his hands shaking wouldn't be obvious.

“It's chilly down here. Your eyes play tricks in the dark _.”_

Ryan let out a deep breath. “You idiot, explain the voices.”

“We’re in France. It scans radio channels. Could just be interference.”

“Seriously? You-you idiot, those were intelligent responses!”

“More intelligent than yours.”

“Very funny asshole. Let’s turn back.”

As they ambled, he felt a thousand disembodied hands caress him. He wished he’d brought a thicker jacket if only for a barrier. This headache was even worse than Gettysburg’s. Even Shane looked sick, although it could be the light and the effect of being stared down by rows of skulls _._

Legions of specters just barely seen rushed him _._ Something must have snapped when he started speaking French to them, like they suddenly understood what he was and that he understood them. They desperately _wanted_ him. He could feel it.

_Aidez-nous aidez-nous aidez-nous s’il vous plaît aidez-_

_Go. Go in peace go in peace go in peace go in peace leave me in peace go ALLEZ ! PAIX DE DIEU ALLEZ !_

It was overwhelming to feel all their heartache swelling inside of him.

_Go in peace._

He felt them leave even before he opened his eyes. _Osti de tabarnak._

Thank God they only had an hour and a half in here. About half, now. That was enough evidence for the century.

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t remember what he ordered, but it was beautifully presented and tasted even more beautiful. Not that he could will himself to enjoy it. It tasted like ash.

Because, _putain de merde_ , Shane _remembered._ His French was rusty and worn away by centuries, but the memories weren’t. They didn’t call it the Terror for nothing. Not Voltaire, not Hugo, no pretentious French writer could depict the horrid poverty and mess of government that sparked the revolution. And nothing, no history book or movie could _ever_ capture the gruesome Terror. Wherever suffering went, he followed. He fed on it, but it tasted just as much like ash as what he was eating. Whatever sick demonic pleasure he got from it made it taste even worse.

 

None of those bones actually came from the Terror, but the suffering that led to it. The catacombs were built just as the revolution started. He didn’t know why that guillotine victim appeared. But the amount of suffering packed into those vast, narrow corridors…

He was too full to eat.

 

And guilt mixed with the bile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a French speaker and this was more than a little self indulgent, I apologize. Since I'd rather you hear it from me than have to go to google translate, I'll list some translations that may be unclear in the text.  
> 1\. "Nous voudrions vous parler" - We would like to speak to you  
> 2\. "Vous vous appelez comment ? Je m'appelle Ryan, lui, c'est Shane." - What's your name? My name's Ryan, that's Shane  
> 3\. "De quelle facon vous etes morts ?" How did you die  
> 4\. "De-mo" - Demon (Broken up by spirit box)  
> 4\. "Aidez-nous s'il vous plait" Help us please  
> 5\. "Allez" "paix de dieu" "Go" "peace of God"  
> 6\. Osti de tabarnak - Quebecois curse, literally means host of the tabarnacle  
> 7\. Putain de merde - curse, "fucking shit"


	6. Notice and apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :/

I'm sorry, but I don't think I will be continuing this fic. To be honest, I always felt a little uncomfortable writing with real people, and that combined with a loss of confidence and inspiration has taxed my will to write. I had a lot of plans for this fic and it was a fun experience, but I ultimately don't feel motivated to continue. I know this will be very disappointing for some of you. I might pick it back up if I ever feel compelled to, but as of now consider this fic orphaned. If you want to yell at me, or just talk, or ask your unanswered questions, feel free to find me on tumblr at spectralee. Thank you to everyone who read and supported this story.


End file.
